


we've cried ourselves a hurricane

by south_like_sherman



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Cold Weather, Depression, I ONLY WRITE IN METAPHORS IT'S STUPID, I can only write angst, I'm Sorry, JOHN JUST NEEDS LOVE, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Metaphors, Panic Attacks, Tears, Winter, alex doesn't know, bC THATS IMPORTANT IN THIS OK, but boy will he, my bad - Freeform, smol noodle bby, so many tears
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-31
Updated: 2017-01-31
Packaged: 2018-09-21 05:20:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9533528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/south_like_sherman/pseuds/south_like_sherman
Summary: "John shakes, so Alex holds him, and John says he's just cold. The shaking doesn't stop, but the fine droplets trailing down the thick arch of John's cheek do, and Alex thinks that might be enough. They don't talk about it, because John doesn't bring it up, so Alex let's it go, watches it float away and disappear in thick, suffocating layer of clouds (waiting, hiding), and Alex isn't so sure it's gone at all- thinks maybe it's just hovering in the atmosphere, just above his head, ready to drop at any moment.As it turns out, it does drop- on a cold, unremarkable Thursday afternoon."orJohn finally breaks.it's angsty i'm sorry





	

Alex knows something's wrong in the way John speaks, in the way he smiles, in the way he laughs- because no one laughs like that, no one laughs like it splinters and shatters and catches in their throat, and no one forces it out anyway. But John's unlike anyone Alex has ever met, so he ignores it, because if something's wrong, surely John will tell him, because they talk about everything; everything and nothing, but sometimes Alex wonders that maybe along the way they forget to talk about the important stuff.

John shakes, so Alex holds him, and John says he's just cold. The shaking doesn't stop, but the fine droplets trailing down the thick arch of John's cheek do, and Alex thinks that might be enough. They don't talk about it, because John doesn't bring it up, so Alex let's it go, watches it float away and disappear in thick, suffocating layer of clouds (waiting, hiding), and Alex isn't so sure it's gone at all- thinks maybe it's just hovering in the atmosphere, just above his head, ready to drop at any moment.

As it turns out, it does drop- on a cold, unremarkable Thursday afternoon.

The apartment is silent when Alex comes back from his internship, and that's wrong, because John is never silent, can't stand it- he fills the emptiness with music, with noise, with anything he can find. In exams, he taps his foot as he writes, because he can't stand hearing only his thoughts- he says they're too loud, so he drowns them out with more sound, more noise, more, more, more. Alex can't quite hear his thoughts either though, which scares him, because he never knows what John's thinking, because John says 'I'm fine' like he really isn't at all, like his thoughts are ticking just below the surface of his freckled skin, and the only thing keeping them from exploding is the hand John presses over his tired eyes, like he can't bear to see the world anymore, and Alex misses his eyes, more than anything else, he thinks.

"John?" He calls, dropping his keys on the table residing next to the door (he remembers the day he and John assembled it- neither of them spoke Swedish, which made deciphering the instructions infinitely harder). "John? You there?"

Only silence greets his words. He pretends his hands are only shaking from the cold. John scares him sometimes, with the things he says, the things he does- but god, he's fine, he says, it's all fine, Alex, he whispers- so Alex ignores the blood trickling from the cut in his lip, ignores the way he bites his lip like he wants it to hurt, wants it to split, like he deserves it (though of course, John never deserves it).

Alex's eyes sweep over the apartment, the flat room devoid of the broken laughter that always seems to fill it. When Alex's searching gaze finally lands on John, the silence had never seemed louder.

John's shivering again, drawn tight into the corner, hidden by the raggedy sofa with his arms pulled tight around himself, as though he's trying to hide, trying to sink into the wall and just disappear forever into that corner, leave and never come back (Alex doesn't think he can bear that). John's thin t-shirt does little to protect him against the biting cold infecting the apartment, raising goose-bumps across his trembling arms. Alex doesn't need to wonder why he hasn't turned the heat up. His head is tipped back, resting against the cold, smooth wall, and his throat bobs as he swallows hard, as though it hurts. His earbuds are in, long black wires that tangle into a twisted knot halfway through, hanging down his chest, as though John had yanked them out of his bag in a hurry, like he couldn't be bothered to untangle them, like he didn't care. That's wrong as well, because John never uses his earbuds, always plays his music out loud with the volume all the way up, like he has to be heard. Soft, dusty eyelashes fan out across his freckled cheeks, clumped with something that might be tears (but that's not right, because John doesn't cry).

Alex isn't used to seeing John like this- because John is steady and sure and _there_ , and he never breaks, never cries. But now- god, now, he looks like he's fallen apart, like someone's tugged too hard at some fundamental string deep inside of him, and he's simply unravelled.

"John. . ." Alex crouches next to him, unsure of what to do, fingers brushing along the curve of John's cheek. It's cold, colder than anything Alex knows.

John flinches back, head slamming into the wall with a harsh thud, and Alex winces for him, because John doesn't. He doesn't react at all in fact, only blinks, slow and heavy, like his eyelashes are glued together. He yanks a black bud out of one ear, the sudden movement so at odds with the blank expression carved into his fine features. His weary gaze focuses slowly on Alex, bleary and dazed.

"Alex," he breathes, like the name is a prayer dripping from his reverent lips. "You scared me." He sounds like a wounded animal, like Alex had truly frightened him- but also something else, something Alex can't quite place.

"Are you. . . ok?" It's a stupid question, and Alex knows it, wincing as soon as it leaves his lips.

A low, bitter laugh bubbles from John's lips, choked and strained. "'Course I am, Alex. I'm always ok." He says it with a sour taint to his voice. Alex wishes his words were true. Another shiver wracks John's frail form (Alex swears he hadn't been so thin before- but now he's all lines and angles and edges, skin pulled taught over his skinny frame), and he grits his teeth against it. Alex tries to to reach out to him again, because he likes touching John, likes the ways his skin ripples underneath Alex's touch, likes the way he smiles like that's the only thing he needs- but he's not smiling now. Instead, he jerks away again as though Alex's touch burned, like it's just too much.

"You're cold, John." Alex's voice sounds far away, distant and tinny, like it's not him speaking at all, but someone else entirely. He says it because it's the only thing he can think of.

"No 'm not."

A flat-out refusal. Alex thinks maybe he's not shaking from the cold this time either.

"Yeah," Alex murmurs, laying one hand across the chilled skin of John's cheek, thumbing just below the soft hollow of his eye. "You are."

John leans into his touch this time, ever so slightly- but it's enough. Alex thinks maybe he can feel John's pulse, his heart, beating just below his skin with a wonderful kind of thrill, so infinitely precious, and god, he never wants it to stop.

"'M just tired, 'Lex." John's eyelids slide down across his shining eyes, as though they're too heavy for him to lift. "'M really tired." His voice is low and quiet when he speaks, and there's a kind of frosty undertone in it, like the cold has somehow seeped into his voice, his very being.

"You can sleep, John. There's nowhere we have to be tonight." Alex knows it's not the solution John's looking for, and John knows it too.

He laughs- a sharp, acrid thing, and his smile is like broken glass; it cuts into Alex, leaves him bleeding.

"Always full of answers, aren't you, Alex," John murmurs, almost to himself. It's not a question. His eyes find Alex's, and they terrify him. "I don't need sleep. I'm just tired-" His voice catches on the last word, and it shatters like his laugh.

Alex takes one of John's limp hands in his own, and tries to ignore the cold seeping through them into him. He presses a soft, sweet kiss to John's cheek, because he can see something glistening there, something that looks like a tear, and he doesn't want John to cry- doesn't want to think what that might mean.

Something choked and harsh forces it's way out of John's throat strangled and painful, and Alex hates that sound, hates how John wrenches his hand away from Alex to clamp over his mouth, as though it wasn't supposed to escape, as though Alex wasn't supposed to hear it. John head drops like it's suddenly become heavier, stones weighing it down and if Alex could lift them he would, he'd do anything, fucking _anything_ if it meant John would stop shaking like that. John's forehead rests against Alex's chest now, and Alex pretends he can't see his shoulders shuddering. Instead, he twists himself so he's pressed to the wall, John's head cradled in his lap, and Alex can feel his breath coming in shuddering gasps, and Alex thinks that might be the only warm thing about him right now.

Alex cranes his neck down, feathering a kiss of the arch of John's brow, his hot breath ghosting over the chilled skin there. He swears he can see it fogging up, like a window when it gets too cold and becomes glazed in a fine layer of frost, because some times Alex thinks he can see right through John into something else, like John isn't really here- but he pushes that thought aside, because he doesn't think he can bear it if John isn't here.

John mumbles something under his breath, the words tripping and tumbling from his lips like he can't get them out fast enough, whispered in clumsy Spanish, so fast Alex can barely catch them.

"Lo siento, Alex, lo siento, lo siento, por favor, lo siento, no dejes, por favor, lo siento-" His voice is airless and cracked, rushed out in one, long, drawn out breath. His words are cut off with another choked sob.

"John, está bien, está bien, tú no hace falta que lo sientas, mi amor, está bien, sí? Está no tu culpa, amor, tu no hace cualquier cosa."

The words roll off of Alex's tongue easily, leaving a familiar, sweet taste on his tongue, and it's almost enough to make him smile- but he doesn't, because smiling only hurts now, because he's the only one who ever does.

John jerks his head shakily, hands curling in Alex's coat (it's only now he realises he must've forgotten to take it off), fisting in the fabric like it's the only thing keeping him grounded. Alex shifts slightly, shrugging off his coat and draping it over John, because he's still so cold, so cold it burns. He holds John's hands in his own instead, pressing a firm kiss to his knuckles, adjusting John slightly so his chin rests just on top of John's head. He lets his lips brush over John's temple, burying his nose among the soft curls of his hair, breathing in. John smells of shampoo and apple and mint and _home_ , and Alex only holds him tighter because home always seems so far away, always slips away far too quickly for him, and by god, Alex is not letting John go.

"Estoy aquí, I'm here, amor, I've got you," Alex murmurs, pressing the words into John as though they might fade otherwise- because they will, they'll disappear right into the fucking air if Alex doesn't stop them, doesn't keep them on John. "I've got you, ok? I've got you."

John's eyelids flutter slightly, revealing the smallest glimmer of flickering amber, and he reaches up one, trembling hand to Alex, as though he might touch him- but he stops.

"Never let go, Alex- please, don't-"

His voice shatters before he can finish the sentence, trailing off and evaporating, floating away through the open window and into the street, lost in the bustle of the wide, bright city.

Alex catches his hand before it can fall, and presses it to his chest.

"Never."

The words are a soft, whispered promise, and they spiral through the air, settling on John like snowflakes and melting into his golden skin.

John's eyes slide closed again, breath escaping in a soft, contented rush, and his lips settle slightly into a gentle arch- Alex is almost afraid to call it a smile, but that's what it is, because John's _smiling_.

The sunlight drifts in wide, bright shafts through the frosted window, a gold so pale it's almost white, painting John in a kind of heavenly light, his skin illuminated a shimmering kind of bronze, and Alex sometimes doesn't think that John's human at all, but an angel. Or, something from the sky or just somewhere else, because someone like John is too beautiful to be from earth. Earth is dirty and tainted and violent and ruined, but John isn't- not yet, all least. Men have the tendency to ruin every beautiful thing they touch, and Alex will never let that happen to John.

John is everything- and sometimes everything breaks, and Alex will always be there to fix it.

**Author's Note:**

> sorry for my shit spanish and anything else that may be shit  
> please drop a comment or kudos it would really make my day xx  
> please come scream at me [here](http://the-girl-who-cried-ship.tumblr.com/) on tumblr  
> title from [this song](https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=xGWtF1AttTw) y'all should listen to it it's honestly rlly great  
> sleeping at last is where i get 87% of my inspiration tbh  
> thanks for reading have a lovely day!
> 
> ~ Kinzie


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